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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987832">The Luckiest Man Alive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliNasweter/pseuds/AliNasweter'>AliNasweter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abigail/Arthur mentioned and treated as a once upon a time possibility, F/M, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Implied/Referenced Sex, Protective Arthur Morgan, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:09:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987832</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliNasweter/pseuds/AliNasweter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She had seen a man who talked to horses and was respectful to women, and she had pointed at his stupid little brother, with too big of a mouth and the manners of a toad, and said – I want <i>this one</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abigail Roberts Marston &amp; Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, John Marston &amp; Arthur Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Luckiest Man Alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hosea didn’t have to come to him and blackmail him to track that stupid idiot down. Dutch didn’t have to say “son, do it for me” and Abigail didn’t have to say she was worried. The moment the fifth day went by and John was nowhere to be seen, Arthur took Boadicea, and with a parting nod at Hosea, he left the camp.</p><p>No town had heard of him. No saloon, no drunk, no whore, no sheriff. He had hunted down some O’Driscolls and did things he was almost ashamed of just to get them to admit they had taken John, killed him, dumped his body into the sea. At that point, he wanted to hear <em>any</em> news. Maybe the idiot just fell off his horse and broke his neck. <em>This cliff looks like the perfect place for something like this to happen.</em> Maybe the bear he had read about in the newspapers ate him. Maybe he got ambushed by a no-name gang Arthur had no hope of tracking down.</p><p>Arthur hadn’t touched his journal for weeks. That seemed to be the main mistake. He got himself blind drunk, after he got slapped by Abigail and yelled at by Dutch – because we <em>all</em> miss him, Arthur! After he’d thought about drowning in his misery, after he’d shed some tears over the bastard, after all that did he open his journal to try and write it all down so he wouldn’t go mad.</p><p>
  <em>Needed to get away. Don’t look for me. John</em>
</p><p>With a snap of fingers, his grief turned into anger. Abigail didn’t dare to blame him for anything anymore. That woman could look at Death herself and scoff, yet she didn’t dare to come close to Arthur after they had learned what happened.</p><p>Arthur, contrary to popular belief among the other members of the gang, had taken John’s disappearance the hardest. He kept fumbling with the cigarettes and he started wearing his hat around the camp, avoiding their eyes. He frequently disappeared for long periods of time, then he came back claiming he had been investigating <em>the clues</em>, trying to find them a job there or somewhere else, hunting. He would return haggard, exhausted, dirty, and fuming with hot white anger. Disappointed, worried and betrayed. An older brother who had taken the little brat in, and loved him more fiercely than anyone else. If any of them tried hard enough, they could take the fact that John had even left a message, as a good sign. He hadn’t thought to tell Dutch, Hosea, his own woman who had just given life to his son, but he had written a small note in Arthur’s journal.</p><p>Arthur was not that kind of a person who would succumb to his temper. If he ever lost his temper, it was because he had allowed it. It was a calculated move, thought through, a strategy, a way to get more strength into a punch, or to punctuate a threat. Other than that, he kept it all in.</p><p>So when Abigail noticed him opening his journal, she initially took it for a good sign. Finally, he would get over it, find a way to let the tension out. Dutch would send him on a ride to get the anger out of him, but that never worked. A wild ride on the fastest horse, hunting the most dangerous animals, a shootout, a robbery. But she knew, just as Hosea did, that Arthur had to get the tension out of his mind, not his body. She noticed he got calmer whenever he was hunched over the journal, his hands always gentle, his fingers thoughtful, his writing so beautiful that even Dutch had felt the need to point it out without the irony he’d reserved for Arthur’s talents that had nothing to do with horse riding and shooting. He smirked at his drawings and said that maybe <em>that</em> was going to be the “big score” they all so desperately needed. But he was genuinely impressed by his handwriting.</p><p>Abigail smiled at Arthur whenever he wasn’t looking. She scowled at him when he <em>caught</em> her looking. She wouldn’t want him to get any ideas, after all. They had a history, or something close to it. Longing looks and soft smiles and the tips of his fingers at the brim of his ragged hat. Small bow of his head followed by a boyish grin. She could have had this once and she had refused.</p><p>She was happy for Arthur when he fell in love with Mary. She felt good about him getting the love she didn’t feel for him, back when she had eyes only for John. But Mary had left Arthur brokenhearted and things had been getting worse ever since. John had gotten snappish and his moods had become impossible to predict. She had been pregnant, tired, and horrified of the conditions she would bring a small child into. She had hoped for a husband and a family and a house and a job, real honest work. This little being couldn’t just come into the world with only tents for a home, with thieves for parents, sticks for toys, and criminals for uncles and friends.</p><p>Mary had happened, John had happened (was still happening, damn her and damn him and damn it all), Arthur was alone and she was alone and Jack-</p><p>“I would take care of you,” he had said once, when he got blind drunk, so drunk that he wasn’t laughing anymore. Arthur had always been a happy drunk, it both amused and saddened the whole gang to no end. Because they could appreciate the usually brooding man laughing freely and loudly, singing or even dancing, terribly and clumsily but with genuine joy. It was still sad, though, to realize that only a certain amount of alcohol would let him relax among trusted members of the gang, the family.</p><p>It was rare for him to get drunk and be pitiful. He had come to her, surprisingly lucid, his eyes glassy, and said that he was there for her, that he never got over her, over the possibility of being together. They always felt like they had a history, and maybe even a future, and not only once had Abigail wondered if that was God’s way to show her the errors of her life and decisions.</p><p>Arthur would take care of her, and the boy. Was she being selfish, still holding on to John Marston? Jack needed a father, a family. She needed…</p><p>Arthur would have little Jack in his arms, talking to him, showing great interest in whatever the baby was babbling about. And Abigail, seeing this, would <em>die</em> just to see <em>John</em> like this. Just like Arthur, his eyes loving and voice soft, with her son in his strong arms, holding him tenderly and with experience she never dared to question or point out. It was times like these that she could admit to herself the love she felt for the man.</p><p>It was times when he was being an uncle to Jack, a brother to John, a friend to her, when she loved him the most, and didn’t dare to want anything more. She had wanted him, at first. But seeing what Mary had to go through, she was glad she hadn’t been faster. Arthur had everything here; his life, his parents, his living, a purpose. He looked content while living in tents, brushing the horses, writing in that journal of his, sighing at Dutch’s monologues but listening to them anyway, ribbing Hosea and laughing at stupid jokes, singing off tune by the campfire and smoking, legs dangling over the edge of a cliff. He looked as if a life with a wife and a child somewhere in a house, finding an honest work and not being wanted by the law and shot at, simply didn’t cross his mind. She wouldn’t dare to take that happiness from him. That happiness she hadn’t seen in John.</p><p>In John who had left her behind, who had left without looking back, without anything that should have mattered to him the most.</p><p>***</p><p>“I would take care of you both.” Soft and patient, wanting but hesitant. Pitying both of them at once. Himself for falling in love with an outsider woman, for not leaving the gang for her. And her for falling in love with a man who had left her behind, who had not stayed for her. They were perfect for each other.</p><p>“I know, Arthur.”</p><p>Abigail had always known that. Just as well as she knew that Arthur wouldn’t leave the gang with her. After a few days with them, still new and scared, she could very well tell that Arthur belonged to the gang first, and a woman second. The whole business with Mary had only proved her right. He had obviously loved her, truly and deeply. Yet – he was here, doing chores, feeding the gang he considered his family, smiling at Jack like this was the only place he could imagine being at.</p><p>If Arthur were more like John, he would be perfect.</p><p>She had thought John was different in this. Always more distant from the gang, always the second, always the younger. She had thought he would leave the gang <em>with her</em>. Not even her nightmares were cruel enough to show her the future where he would have gone without her, without Jack. She wanted to strangle him with her own hands. She wanted him back. What had she done to deserve this? Why had she fallen in love with the worst man there was?</p><p>If John were more like Arthur, he would be perfect.</p><p>***</p><p>“I hate him,” she hissed angrily, stomping to his cot where he was squinting at his journal in the orange light of the dying lantern behind his back.</p><p>“No you don’t,” he replied without looking up.</p><p>He almost yelped when she took him by that stupid blue shirt that complimented his eyes <em>so damn much </em>– and then she climbed on his knees, clenching her fists in his shirt, just under his neck.</p><p>Big strong hands, so warm, so tender, on her back, palms on her hips. Gripping, but not to pull her close but keep her away. She could hear the growl building up in her throat. Then she went for the kiss, messy and hungry, all teeth, more of an attack than a kiss, really – and there were the hands once more, weakening at first, but tightening again, trying to keep her still.</p><p>“You want this,” she accused him, looked pointedly at his crotch, at his wide eyes, so dark, so close.</p><p>“No,” he choked up, then cleared his throat. “My body sure does, obviously, uh,” he was blushing and looking everywhere but at her and Abigail wanted to cry. Why couldn’t she love him as much as she loved John, or even better, why couldn’t she love him more? “But <em>I</em> don’t. You are angry and you want revenge and I ain’t gonna be that. This would make things really awkward, you know. And you would hate me for it.<em> I</em> would hate me for it.”</p><p>For a man who liked to call himself a simpleton to keep matters easy, he sure had his bright moments. Abigail could love him with all her heart, but not in the way she wanted, needed, or the way he deserved. She had seen a man who talked to horses and was respectful to women, and she pointed at his stupid little brother, with too big of a mouth and the manners of a toad, and said – I want <em>this one</em>.</p><p>He held her in place, still on his lap, and she knew it was only for her to not fall off. Suddenly, she could feel her cheeks burning, memories of the days she had to do this for a living washing over her. She hadn’t batted an eyelid while doing this to strangers. This was <em>Arthur</em>. Arthur, who would love her and cherish her and raise her son as his own, but didn’t, because this all was supposed to belong to his brother.</p><p>She felt like a monster. This man shot people, robbed banks and trains, and <em>she</em> felt like the worst person in this world, sitting on his knees, using his love to quench her thirst for a man’s embrace, for petty revenge. She had promised herself she would never go back to her old days. She was a mother now. She was supposed to be a wife, without a church and ceremony, without a wedding dress and a ring, without a husband.</p><p>“Don’t,” she tried, but he was, once again, much kinder than she deserved. Arthur wasn’t one to brag. She knew.</p><p>“I won’t,” he promised. So once she was on her feet, she straightened her skirt and brushed her hair with the tips of her fingers, hoping the night chill would cool her burning cheeks. Then she went back to her baby son, leaving Arthur behind, not looking back. Still, hearing him hissing at the now quite a big problem she had created with only a wiggle of her hips, she couldn’t help but smile.</p><p>One day, they both will wonder who didn’t take advantage of the other.</p><p>***</p><p>John was by no means a tender lover. He took what he wanted, then gave as much back. They didn’t need to communicate, to navigate each other, both feeling what the other needed. He wouldn’t shy away from dirty talk, taking her fast and hard and she would cry out in the end, sated and loved.</p><p>She had never slept with Arthur. But she didn’t need that to know he would have treated her like a porcelain doll, afraid he would break her, crush her in his embrace. He would be painfully and frustratingly gentle and she didn’t want that, too impatient, too fierce to be held like something precious and fragile.</p><p>She smiled when she noticed Mary-Beth’s sweet smiles and Arthur’s answering ones, oblivious, friendly. He was just as blind to his possibilities as Abigail was to hers. They would make a good pair. A romantic soul like Mary-Beth would be happy with a man like Arthur. But Arthur had to fall in love with a woman from a wealthy and respectful family, Arthur had to feel something more for a woman who had fallen for his idiotic brother.</p><p>They were all so incredibly stupid and blind, it was only fair.</p><p>***</p><p>The comeback was not what she had hoped for. Hosea pulled his lost son into a hug, Dutch behind them talking their ears off, asking, interrogating. His voice calm and friendly, his eyes sharp and untrusting. Disappointed.</p><p>Arthur looked as if all the fight had left him. But after a small look they exchanged, seemingly nothing but a coincidence, she knew that wasn’t the case. So when he breathed out a sigh of relief at seeing John alive and well, he came to him and grounded him with one well-aimed punch. Abigail gasped at that, yes, but she felt a burst of vicious laughter tickling in her belly, not the worry she would have expected. It felt like a gift, like a promise, an agreement between them – <em>if he ever hurts you again, just tell me.</em></p><p>She had thought that was the end of it. If she had known how distant would the brothers become since then, she wouldn’t have wanted to laugh at all.</p><p>And as the years went by, as her son’s tears broke her heart over and over, as John refused to see the boy as his son, she <em>regretted</em>, and not only once. She felt her son’s pain, his confusion: why did his pa call him “boy” or avoided calling him anything at all? Why was it always Arthur with a kind word or a mischievous grin, why was it always Arthur who ruffled his hair and brought him candies? Why was his mother always so nervous and bitter and tired, always trying so hard to smile at him.</p><p>Both brothers were too bullheaded to talk. Arthur would try in the first weeks of John’s return, but he couldn’t bring himself to be calm, always falling back to the matters of John leaving the gang, the family, him, continuing with being a father good for nothing – and John didn’t want to hear that. Of course he didn’t. It was only a matter of time before he stopped listening at all.</p><p>“The kid’s probably his anyway,” he muttered once, drunk, didn’t really remember it in the morning.</p><p>“I wish he was,” Abigail told him, wanting to stab him and twist the knife a little, turn it in the wound and watch it bleed. John only snickered and fell asleep. They never mentioned it again.</p><p>***</p><p>She felt like crying whenever she saw Jack frowning in focus, so invested in his book. He would write his favorite lines down, he would read them aloud, and he would try to sketch their daily life with the same tenderness she used to see in Arthur.</p><p>With a soft smile, she picked up the old black hat (ragged, dirty, cherished) and put it on her husband’s head. He only hummed, not looking up from his newspaper. None of them would be there today if it weren’t for Arthur. They didn’t talk much about him. But they thought about him.</p>
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